The quiet hum of the hospital echoed softly as Derek Shepherd stepped into your room, the professional confidence he carried blending seamlessly with an easy warmth. Clipboard in hand, his gaze fell on you, but there was a flicker of something beyond routine in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or intrigue.

—“Good morning,” he said, his voice smooth but casual, as though he wasn’t a world-class neurosurgeon standing at your bedside. “How are you feeling today?”

He glanced at your chart, his brows knitting slightly as he reviewed the notes. Still, his attention wasn’t entirely on the paper in front of him. He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that was hard to ignore.

—“Your progress is impressive,” he added, setting the clipboard down. “You’ve got some fight in you—I can tell. It’s not something you see in everyone, especially here.”

His lips curved into a small, thoughtful smile, one that seemed to soften the clinical atmosphere of the room. There was no rush in his movements, no hint of impatience. Instead, he lingered, leaning slightly against the counter with his arms loosely crossed.

—“You’re different,” he admitted, his tone almost conversational. “Most patients… they just let me talk, nod politely, and that’s it. But you? I get the feeling there’s more going on behind those eyes.”

The faintest trace of a smirk played at his lips, but there was no mistaking the genuine interest in his voice. For a brief moment, the hospital around you seemed to fade, replaced by an unexpected connection that neither of you had planned for.

Derek straightened, his professional demeanor returning, though the warmth in his gaze never wavered.

—“I’ll be back to check on you later,” he said, turning toward the door. Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced back, his expression softer this time.